


pop goes the flower

by wearegoingtodie



Category: New Dangan Ronpa V3: Everyone's New Semester of Killing
Genre: but like huge tw for abuse at least on the second one, they are shortttt, this is just a double vent fic, with wildly different concepts and issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-14
Updated: 2021-01-14
Packaged: 2021-03-12 01:20:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 705
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28752075
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wearegoingtodie/pseuds/wearegoingtodie
Kudos: 4





	1. round and round

Shuichi was stuck in limbo. Not literally-he wasn’t dead, at least not yet. But every day that passed felt the same as the next and the last. No matter how hard he tried, no day differentiated from the next, no matter how many people he talked to, or activities he did, or things he ate. The days passed, surely, if the electronic calendar on his phone could be trusted, but the hours that passed were shrouded in a thick, heavy mist that covered all the memorable details. People blurred in and out of mind’s view, and Shuichi felt entirely stuck. Of course, he stayed the same too-the same reclusive detective who had a fear of other people looking into him. Of course he did. Because to say the days weren’t passing would sound...it would sound crazy. It did sound crazy, even to him, as he listened to his thoughts on another clouded day and wondered if he (if this) was real. He talked to others (because everybody was alive and there was nothing wrong) and he went out and he got different kinds of shows and board games and everything he possibly could to change the day up. Sometimes he would invite Rantaro (images of his bloodied, matted hair stuck to his skull rung around Shuichi’s head) or Kiibo (flashes of the boy exploding haunted him at night), or even Kaede (her dangled corpse, her horrified face, the truth staring at him-)

He couldn’t break the cycle of days. It had been another week, and he hadn’t noticed. (He didn’t notice a lot of things. It was pathetic, for a detective.) His friends (did he deserve to call them that?) came and went and tried to coax him into various activities and meals, but he couldn’t remember what they were or half the time, who they were. Chess and checkers and clue, monopoly and various cards games he couldn’t remember the names of were scattered on his nightstand (it had rubber edges. They thought he would hurt himself). He didn’t touch any of them. Shuichi wondered if he really slept, sometimes, or if he just hallucinated until he felt okay again. Was this a hallucination? Is that why the days blurred and mixed and shoved against each other until weeks become months? Maybe it was. 

Shuichi fell asleep again. It’ll be tomorrow soon.


	2. a rue for regret

Flowers were always a part of Shuichi. Whether it was the roses his mother brought home and placed in her glass vases before she’d left him alone, or the daffodils that grew in the cracks of the blacktop that used to blister his shoulder blades as he was pushed down onto it, flowers were part of him. He found them fascinating, beautiful. The dull red color of an amaryllis that looked so much like that dried blood beneath his nose or on his arm. The fading, pale-purple of a dwarf iris that looked like the blossoming bruises on his stomach and the distant yellow of a hellebores that looked like the edges of the bruising. Shuichi felt so much like a flower sometimes. A black-dyed rose for the dark night sky when his uncle locked him outside again. A sunlight bat orchid for the particular shade of bruise that the wall-ball wall used to make on his shoulders and back. Shuichi began to hide his eyes beneath a hat so black and white no poor flower could ever compare, but it cancelled out, he thought. After all, his eyes didn’t match a flower either. So ugly. So disgusting. Soon, the flower-like bruising became glass shards shoved into his arms and legs and it became the taste of rubber and the feeling of bitter, biting cold when his uncle was too drunk to open the door. Gerbera daisies were the color of his bloodied neck and his bare feet as they pounded against the pavement, his skin felt cold, as pale as a dahlia, and Shuichi was once again left alone. Perhaps, this time, when the cold consumes his frail body, and his eyes turn dull and unseeing, he will become a flower. A poppy for eternal sleep. A cypress for death and despair. A rosemary for remembrance.

A rue for regret.


End file.
